Do You Believe in Ghosts?

The following story is true, I could have quite easily conjured up visions of dark secluded graveyards with full moons and howling wolves, freezing breath exhaling deep into the night and ghostly transparent figures moving majestically through the graveyard ruins. I could have made it sound all very intense but for me anyway it didn’t need any ‘spicing up’. On the contrary as it all took place on a lovely spring morning, sun shining, birds singing, such a nice setting for a pleasant Sunday afternoon spent out in the company of my three year old son. To be honest the following isn’t really a story about ghosts but more about humans and there response to such things… Or at least my response.

I can’t speak for everyone but for me at least when on entering a graveyard I can’t help having a feeling of apprehension and anxiousness, in truth a whole mixed bag of feelings: Fear, tranquillity, cold, warm, sad and even at times happy. Reflecting back when as a young boy it all made for a wonderful exciting place as many a hot summers day was spent playing games like hide and seek, cops and robbers and cowboys and Indians. As we got a little older I remember how we’d avoid the numerous potholes and the occasional dog and its walker as we rode our bicycles along the seemingly endless labyrinth of walkways and driveways that wound their way through the dense undergrowth and ancient ruins of the old local cemetery. But alas now the Tarzan swings and collecting conker days long gone I’ve come to learn that the graveyard is for the most, a sad place.

I guess for many people depending on their religious beliefs the cemetery will bring feelings of sombreness, melancholy and mournfulness and I would also hazard a guess bring along mixed up feeling of fear, nervousness and trepidation to mention just a few emotions that may well apply depending on the time of day (or night) one finds oneself in there. But that’s only to be expected, I’m sure all the above mentioned feeling are just perfectly natural occurrences of being within close proximity of so many deceased. Thing is, something happened to me a few years ago that made me aware the cemetery is a place which doesn’t need to be dark or even a place where you need not even be alone to have that strange feeling of always wanting to look over your shoulder.

My son Carl and I have always had a great relationship, right from an early age we seemed to do everything and go everywhere together. He really was like my shadow, but then, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. So it came as no surprise back in 1995 when Carl was just three years old we found ourselves visiting his grandmother’s graveside together.

His grandmother had just recently died and around that time we frequently visited her graveside. The usual routine started to take place, do a bit of weeding, say a few prayers, have a little one-way telepathic chat with her about this and that and replace the old flowers with new. I think Carl being so young couldn’t fully realise what was really going on, why his grandmother had gone away and why she was ‘in the ground now.’ Although I tried on this occasion as on many other occasions before to explain in the best way I could, he just seemed content to plant his own flowers (albeit broken twigs) into the ground directly to the side of my mother’s grave whilst chattering away to himself.

It wasn’t long before I had completed my duties, everything looked very respectful once again and soon we were both heading off back to the car. Once Carl was safely fastened in his child seat in the rear of the vehicle soon enough we were driving out along the twisting driveways that cut through the gynormous Horse Chestnut trees whose huge claw-like branches lined the roadside. We had barely made it to the exit gates before Carl decided to ask what was on his mind. ‘You don’t know George do you dad?’ came his question.

‘George, George who?’ I replied, half-heartedly paying attention to his question as I twisted and turned the car trying to divert the many potholes.

‘George, he’s in the ground at the side of grammar’ he quipped.

Straining my neck slightly to catch a glimpse of his face through my rear view mirror half expecting my smile to meet up with his, I was surprised when the look on his face was far from humoristic, in fact quite the contrary, it was positively serious. I could feel the brow of my head tighten as my eyebrows slowly started to meet in the middle. I guess the look on my face gave him the go ahead to elaborate and explain to me in more detail. ‘George... I just saw him and he’s very nice, he said thank you to me for putting flowers on his grave... I feel sorry for him.’

Okay, so I know a kid’s imagination can be very vivid at times and Carl is certainly no exception to the rule but I couldn’t let this moment pass without knowing a little more, after all he had now won my full attention - rolls now reversed I felt like the student listening consciously to the tutor, - I was intrigued.

‘So Carl, this George, how do you know he’s there? Did you see him?’

‘Yes,’ he said without pause or any hesitation whatsoever, and went on to say how Georges’ face was covered in spots, and how he didn’t like his mum, she was a bad mum. She put sharp things in his food which killed him.

Carl seemed to talk about George for the next five minutes or so without any prompting or leading him along in anyway from myself. As he talked I became more and more disturbed, after all if this was indeed just his imagination surely it was not good to be talking in such a way in so much detail, moreover just simply the name... George. I wasn’t quite sure where he had plucked this name from, after all there wasn’t anybody named George in our family and to my knowledge he didn’t know of anybody called George and he certainly at the age of three couldn’t have read it anywhere. So with this in mind I decided it would be best if I changed the subject and lightened the mood a little, everything seemed to be getting a little to intense for my liking.

Shortly after arriving home I mentioned Carl’s encounter with George to his mother and the tone in my voice must have been one of more concern than humour as my wife’s reaction was understandably similar to mine, she also was a little disturbed to say the least and later that evening our intrigue got the better of us and we decided to address ‘George’ with Carl again just to see if, kid like, his story had now changed. However Carl was still adamant and stuck to his story, in fact he went on to elaborate about other things he and George had talked of, like how George had a long finger nail and the fact he had a guitar and he went on how he felt sorry for George and that he wanted to see him again. George would like that also...apparently.

Now his mother and I had a dilemma, do we tell him to stop talking like this, talking such nonsense, making things up, or do we just ignore it and hope it would go away. After a little more deliberation the old phrase ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ sprung to mind and we decided on the latter, ignore it and maybe he’ll soon forget his newly found make-believe friend. We decided enough was enough and to that end we changed the subject and thought it best not to raise it again. A child’s imagination can sometimes quite easily run away and for us as parents it certainly wasn’t a good area for us to keep pursuing the matter.

A few months later and baring in mind George was in the distant past now we revisited the cemetery and on this occasion Carl’s mother came along. I can remember the feeling I received on reaching my mother’s graveside when Carl’s mum asked me, ‘So, where’s this place where Carl was placing the flowers then, you know, where he said he saw George?’

She followed my gaze as I looked over to a very unkempt grave, barely recognizable as a grave other than an old broken headstone at one end baring the name…

George Arthur Lacey

I guess most people would just put it down to a massive coincidence, and others would believe maybe Carl did see someone that day. I’m not what you would call a sceptic nor am I a great believer in ghosties, ghoulies, long legged beasties and things that go bump in the night but when certain things happen, things that you can’t quite put your finger on… well.

I believe one of the greatest emotions of mankind is fear, the heart thuds, the blood races, small children cover their eyes with their hands and peek through their fingers but still fear, terror, seems to have a positive effect on us, I think in a lot of ways it startles and enlivens our senses. We are all creatures of reason until the lights go out, it doesn’t have to take a door to creak, or the eyes on a portrait to start to follow you round the room before you realise a feeling of unsettlement.

Speaking for myself I remember at the time as I looked down on the broken headstone how my eyes bulged my throat tightened my skin goose bumped and something gave inside.

Carl never did see George again to this day (or at least not to our knowledge) and has never mentioned him since. Best let sleeping dogs lie eh?

...Do you believe in ghosts or had Carl imagined it all?

 © Bill Bobby. All rights reserved by the author.